Sorry it's taken so long to update. I've spent a lot of time looking stuff up and changing things in this chapter. More than a little fine-tuning happened to this one and I hope it's turned out okay. Please correct anything that appears out-of-place.
As to the question about the title of the last chapter, I chose it because of the nature of the chapter itself. One action affects countless others, like when you toss a pebble into a pond. The ripples keep getting bigger as they move further out in the water, even though the pebble that created them is relatively small. I simply took that idea and applied it here, although the pebble in this case is more like a boulder. The death of an officer is a memorable event and the consequences of that event can be felt long after. Hence, "the ripple effect".
I apologise for the "breaks" that separate each piece of the chapter. It was the only way to mark the shift in scenes.
Please enjoy this chapter. I hope to update more frequently now that the semester has started.
The smell of coffee and cigarette smoke filled her nostrils as she took a seat at the long conference table next to a detective with a tattoo of something just visible under his rolled-up sleeve. There were over a dozen men and women crowded around the table, notepads and coffee mugs in front of them. They were detectives for the most part, but there were several officers present. Herself, Bosco, O'Shea, Sully, Davis, and a couple plain clothes officers she didn't recognise. The fact that O'Shea was working another double was hardly surprising. She hadn't spoken to him yet, but she knew he would resent the idea that he needed a partner.
One of the detectives leading the investigation coughed loudly and stood, and the low murmur of side chatter came to a gradual end. "Okay. We're here for one purpose, and anyone who doesn't know what that is should be sent back to school. First off, I'd like to introduce our three lucky volunteers on loan from Narcotics. Lowell, Johnson, and Ramirez. ACU has also graciously provided the services of three officers: Jenkins, Duncan, and Brown. We also have Sergeants Jones, Christopher, Cruz, and Scalioni sitting in today, and we can hope to have the benefit of their input as well. Welcome aboard, gentlemen and ladies." Wickes said, pointing out each person as he named them. "Now, that finished, on to the next piece of business. The lab at One Police Plaza has just sent over the latest status report on the meagre evidence we have given them. I have copies of that report here, if you would please pass it around." He handed a stack of papers to the hefty man seated on his left.
"Let's start from the beginning. Our first victim was Keith Staples, a known Ecstasy dealer who operated around Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard. He was found dead last Friday near the corner of MLK and Madison Avenue. He had been stabbed once in the back with a four-inch fixed blade knife, this one here." Asheby held up the weapon. "Also found at the scene was a brown paper bag containing eight packets, amounting to roughly four ounces of street-grade Ecstasy. Staples' fingerprints were not found on the bag or any of the packets, and he was not carrying a wallet or identification. Identification was made by dental records and by Officer Boscorelli, whose brother is acquainted with the victim. Michael Boscorelli is also a known Ecstasy dealer and user who was arrested two days later on Sunday based on information gained from a tip. He was questioned but revealed nothing and was released without charges. He has since dropped out of sight."
"Staples' brother was the closest living relative, and upon notification of his brother's death, promptly travelled to the city. Marine Gunnery Sergeant Joseph Staples was arrested on Monday for unprovoked assault on three men who he alleged to be dealers with information about his brother. None of the men pressed charges against Gunnery Sergeant Staples, but were more than willing to speak with us about what they knew of a growing Ecstasy ring. An informant who has provided accurate information to us in the past was brought in for questioning on Monday, but did not provide anything until Tuesday, after returning to us willingly. According to him, the two skels that killed Staples were new to the particular ring that our informant was a part of. They had disappeared after offing Staples. Our informant gave us nothing else useful."
"How can we be sure that he wasn't keeping something hidden?" Sergeant Cruz wanted to know.
"A good question, and I have a good answer. Our informant has given us invaluable information in the past, and it has always been the complete skinny on operations and players. If something happened on the street, he knew about it." Wickes replied. "There was no real incentive for him to talk to us, if that's what your next question is. In fact, it was actually somewhat dangerous for him to spend more than five minutes in the station house."
Asheby took a long drink from his coffee mug to moisten his throat. "The next day, Wednesday, Officers Yokas and Boscorelli picked up a dealer who our informant had named. He was questioned by myself and Detective Wickes and told us some interesting things about the new bigwig on the Ecstasy circuit around Manhattan. Our informant, the dealers that he named for us, Michael Boscorelli, and Keith Staples are all on this guy's payroll, if you will. He also provided us with a longer list of names than what our informant gave us, in exchange for Detective Wickes' agreement to speak with Narcotics about knocking off a charge or two that were being brought against him." Asheby smiled. "As far as I am aware, that conversation did take place, but little benefit for the dealer came out of it."
The officers and detectives around the table chuckled. Wickes got to his feet as his partner resumed his seat. "We ran all the names through BCI and compiled each hit into a file that was turned over to Lieutenant Swersky. The mugshots of everyone who had a record on file were distributed to each officer on every shift. Maybe a little too much effort for just one murdered drug dealer, but it was a chance to nab some big fish. However, Detective Asheby and myself were called to a schoolyard later that day, where two Dolphin dealers had been shot to death. One of the victims was our informant. He paid a high price for speaking with us. Eyewitnesses at the scene told us that there was only one shooter, but were unable to provide an accurate description of him. He did leave behind the murder weapon, a 9mm Beretta." Wickes held up the gun. "Fingerprints from this weapon matched those belonging to Adam Seavey, a sixteen year-old thug who's been to Riker's twice already. Detective Asheby and I put together a photo line-up and had each witness to the schoolyard shooting take a look at it. All but two of them identified him as the gunman."
"Why not all of them?"
"The two who did not recognise Seavey said they had been crossing the yard when the shooting took place. All they were able to see was the crowd around the bodies." Asheby said.
"We took the information from Dominic, the dealer Yokas and Boscorelli brought in, and used it to obtain a search warrant for an apartment on 3rd Avenue, with a provision to arrest any and all persons within the limits of the apartment at the time of the search. A team of ESU officers accompanied us to the apartment and secured the area for us to go in. Each person present was taken into custody and questioned about the Dolphin ring and who was operating it on the borough-level. Every answer was the same. A guy by the name of Big T."
"That was Thursday. Friday, as you all know, was a very stressful day. Eyewitnesses at the scene told us that Officer Malloy had stopped two guys on the corner of 110th and 1st to talk – about what, we are not sure. It's possible he recognised them from one of the mugshots we circulated around the precinct. One of the two pulled out a 9mm Beretta similar to the one found at the schoolyard and shot him twice in the chest. Both of them fled the scene. Once again, we put together a photo line-up for the eyewitnesses. They picked out Adam Seavey as one of the two. His companion was not unidentified at that point. The two casings found at the scene were rushed to the lab with a top priority tag on the evidence bag.
"Lab technicians were able to retrieve several partial prints from the packets and the brown bag, which were then run through the database. The two sets of fingerprints turned up a number of hits for each, and Detective Wickes and I asked Officers Yokas, Boscorelli, and O'Shea to track down each subject on the list. We had just received the list on Saturday, and called the three of them in. Officer O'Shea was the first to track down Adam Seavey at his last known residence. Seavey was present there, and ran at the officer's entry to the residence, which resulted in a foot pursuit that ended on 110th Street. A group of thugs surrounded and disarmed the officer before assaulting him with his own nightstick. The timely arrival of Officers Yokas and Boscorelli prevented the thugs from shooting O'Shea. One shot had been fired from one thug's personal gun, and the gun and casing were rushed to the lab. The ballistics tests matched that casing to the two casings recovered from the Malloy scene. A records check on the gun, a 9mm Beretta, showed it registered to Jerome Kimball, the one who was carrying it when he was arrested. There is no evidence at this point to believe that he was not the one who shot and killed Officer Malloy."
"So we now have two prime suspects. It's not that much of a stretch to believe that Kimball was present when Staples was killed, but there is no evidence as yet to support that theory. Right now we only have him for Luke Malloy's murder."
"But it gets even better," Wickes said. "Detective Asheby and I called each major city around the country, asking if there was any dealer in their files who went by the name of Big T. We got a hit with the Los Angeles Police Department, where Big T had once operated. He was a dealer there for a number of years. But, prior to that, he was a patrolman for the LAPD. His real name is Anthony Morris, shield number 3627, fired from the department after two weeks on the job for selling Ecstasy from his cruiser. Unfortunately for the good people of the LAPD, Morris had been the top student of his class at the Academy."
"Meaning he knows how the police operate firsthand, and knows what to do and not to do – making him a very slippery and dangerous person to have loose on the street. Why he packed up and moved here is unknown. The LAPD was more than willing to provide us with Morris' record jacket and rapsheet. There are three outstanding warrants for his arrest, for the sale of illegal narcotics, armed robbery, and assault on an officer with a deadly weapon."
The group around the conference table shivered as if with one mind. Asheby nodded grimly. "That's right. This isn't just some backwater bum we're up against. It's an Academy-educated, police-trained drug dealer. He knows the ropes, he knows about forensics, he knows how to cover his tracks. That explains why his people only handled those Ecstasy packets by the edges, why they threw away the Beretta at the schoolyard. He's no fool, and catching him will take some very skilled manoeuvring on our part."
"This gathering of people is our best chance at coming up with some sort of plan to lure Morris out of hiding. We don't know where he is, or how he issues his orders, but we're fairly sure he's within the borders of the precinct."
"How'd you figure?" The hefty man at the head of the table grunted.
"We had Morris' name run through the local cellphone companies. There are no phones registered to his name."
"Which means squat. Anybody can give a false name."
"True, but we think he's smarter than that. He probably uses couriers to carry his orders to whoever needs to know. Much more secure than any cell phone."
"Do we have anything on this Jerome Kimball?"
"He was out on bail pending trial for assault. With him back in jail on a murder charge, it's not looking good for him. It's highly likely he'll talk."
"Adam Seavey. Is his residence under surveillance?"
"There is a team sitting on his place right now. He hasn't shown up there yet."
The woman introduced as Brown clicked the end of her pen against the table. "I'm curious about the weapon used to kill Staples. It was a knife, correct?"
"That's right. No prints were recovered from the weapon."
"So Seavey is only tied to that scene by the partial prints on the bag and packets?"
"Correct."
"That means unless we get a confession from him, we really can't place him at the scene around the time that Staples was killed."
"Correct."
Brown looked troubled. "There is a small mountain of forensic evidence gathered in front of us from each of these scenes, and yet we cannot pin anyone conclusively to any one of them."
"Therein lies our problem, and the reason we organised this task force." Lieutenant Swersky said. "The more resources we have available to us, the more likely it is we can get a line on these bastards."
"Yes, indeed, Lieutenant. I can understand that. But there is little that can be done without a confession from somebody." Brown commented.
"Yes, indeed, Officer Brown. I think I'm fully capable of realising that." Swersky replied frostily.
"How many suspects do we have in custody?" Lowell from Narcotics asked, neatly steering the topic away from a verbal sparring match. "That would be an ideal place to start."
"We have Kimball and his four buddies, from yesterday's fight on 110th and Park. I wouldn't think any one of them would mind talking at this point." Asheby answered.
Faith skimmed quickly back over the notes she had taken. "We've also got the eyewitnesses from the schoolyard and the market. We should put together another photo line-up for them."
"Right, thank you, Officer Yokas. I'd forgotten about that."
"So how do we split this up?" Ramirez wanted to know.
Asheby took a quick headcount. "We've got enough people here for three teams, plus the six of us who'll be co-ordinating here at the house."
"Team one: Ramirez, Duncan, Sergeant Cruz. Team two: Brown, Johnson, Sergeant Scalioni. Team three: Jenkins, Lowell, Sergeant Christopher. Lieutenant Swersky, Sergeant Jones, Detectives Harris, Spindelli, Asheby, and I will run things from here and will provide relief and back up for the teams on the ground. Officers Boscorelli, Yokas, O'Shea, Sullivan, and Davis will provide whatever muscle we may need on the street. Team one will help keep tabs on Seavey's residence and see about getting a warrant for the place. Team two will conduct the interrogations of the five from yesterday, and team three will handle the witnesses and the line-ups."
"We have fliers with Morris' mugshot here, ready for distribution to street officers and the general public. If anybody calls in with a hit on this guy, do not get on the air with it. Landline only. We'll notify ESU right away and get a team rolling to the scene. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is to go after Morris alone." Swersky said, with a pointed glance at Bosco first, and then O'Shea.
"And a reminder: Luke Malloy's funeral is planned for Tuesday afternoon. Whether we have solved this or not, we will take that day off to pay our respects to a good man fallen." Asheby added. "His family has requested donations to the NYPD Memorial in lieu of flowers."
"Any questions?" Swersky asked. No one spoke. "Very well. Good luck, then, and be careful. I've already lost one officer. No need to lose any more."
The gathering broke up with a burst of subdued chatter. Faith turned to speak to O'Shea but found him already out the door. She followed.
"Andy, hold on a minute."
"I've nothing to say to you."
She seized his sleeve and pulled him to a stop. "Well, I've got something to say to you. I'm sorry for drawing on you the other day. I didn't think I had much of a choice. You certainly weren't giving me one."
O'Shea's face was expressionless, his eyes cool and distant. "Yeah, and?"
"And, you can't go without a partner, even a temporary one."
"What about your Italian shadow? What's-his-name over there."
"He'll manage on his own. He's not the one walking around injured."
"I've done it before, I can do it again."
Faith sighed. "Do you really want to make a big deal of this in the middle of the house? You heard Lieu. There's no need to lose another good officer for any reason, be it stupid pride or otherwise."
"You're not gonna lay off, are you?"
"Not anymore than you are."
"Fine." O'Shea gave up. "You think you can keep up? Be my guest, then. I ain't waitin' for nobody."
The phone on his desk jangled for the third time, drawing his wavering attention away from the notes he was attempting to decipher. With a sigh born of too many nights with little to no sleep, Asheby reached for the handset and hoped that it was the lab calling with good news.
"Five-Five Precinct, Detective Asheby."
Wickes plopped into his chair on the other side of the twin desks and slid open the top desk drawer. He fished out a half-crushed pack of gum and was in the process of wrestling a piece from the folds of foil wrapper when his partner suddenly perked up. The taller man cast about for a pen before remembering there was one tucked behind his ear. Wickes raised an eyebrow, folding the piece of gum into his mouth. His partner held up one finger, the signal to wait, and went back to madly scribbling down information. With a grateful "Thank you", he replaced the phone receiver and let out a happy whoop that turned heads his way.
"We got him!"
"Got who?"
"Morris. He was seen going into a residence down on Lexington Avenue." Asheby picked up the phone again and dialled swiftly. "Get a hold of our street team and have them respond to the scene. Yes," he said as someone picked up on the other end of the line. "I'd like to speak to Lieutenant Frye, please."
His pace was fast for an injured man, forcing Faith to jog to keep up. The phone call he had just received had sent him striding away down the sidewalk without a second's hesitation. His desire for retribution for his dead partner was driving him like a living force. She had a feeling it was going to get them both into trouble.
The detectives had gotten a line on Anthony Morris, the dealer behind the rash of violence on the street. He was reportedly seen entering a house near the corner of 118th and Lexington. Faith and O'Shea had been only a few blocks from that intersection when his cell phone rang. He answered it, relayed the message to her, and had immediately abandoned his half-empty coffee cup. It was all too clear that he wanted a piece of Morris before the detectives got to him.
O'Shea stopped two buildings from the house to study the movement on the sidewalk. Anything suspicious would have him reaching for his gun. Faith trotted up behind him, reaching for her radio. She wasn't planning on going into the house without ample backup.
"Five-Five Edward Foot to Central. We're on scene. Status on ESU team."
"Ten-four, Eddie Foot. ESU en route, ETA ten minutes."
"Ten minutes? Too bloody long!"
"Hold on, there's somebody coming out the front door!" Faith pulled O'Shea out of sight behind a pile of boxes. A lean, dark-skinned man paused at the top of the stairs leading up to the door, pulling up the zipper of his jacket. He looked up and down the street before starting down the steps. O'Shea trembled, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. Faith reached out to grab him and pull him back as he moved forward, but her fingers closed on empty air.
"Stop, police!"
The black man's head snapped around toward the source of the shouted command and his eyes went wide at the sight of the officer coming toward him. At once, the man darted back to the safety of the house.
"Andy!"
O'Shea unfastened the strap of his holster and drew his weapon. The time for warnings was over. Adrenaline was pounding through him, lending him speed and blinding him to the dangers of entering a house with a suspect inside. Faith ran after him, knowing that there would be trouble for sure now. O'Shea was remarkably like Bosco. Always charging right in without waiting for backup to arrive. Men could be so dumb sometimes.
"Andy, wait!"
The Irishman was already half-way up the stairs, well past her reach. He was on a mission and nothing was going to get in his way. Yokas swore as she sprinted up the stairs after him. Her temporary partner was going from room to room, checking each one quickly. He was ten or eleven feet ahead of her and moving with the speed of a desperate man. If anything unexpected happened, he would be beyond her ability to help. The echo of his boots on the hardwood floor sounded eerie in the otherwise silent house. Morris was in here somewhere and O'Shea was going to find him.
"Andy!" Yokas hissed, moving as quietly as she could after him. "Wait a minute."
He glanced back briefly. His eyes said clearly what he didn't put into words. "Keep up or leave." She rested her thumb on the safety catch of her gun and crept carefully along the hallway. This was going to be rough. And what in the hell was that smell, anyway? It was stinging her eyes and nose. O'Shea paused at the closed door at the end of the hall, lifting his left hand from his gun. Yokas nodded at the signalled order and slid along the wall until her elbow brushed against the doorframe. Her partner faced the door, his right foot coming up.
"Police, get down!"
A strong, pungent odour hit the two officers as they burst into the room, much stronger than the smell in the hallway. The room was empty except for a lone gas can sitting against one wall. They lowered their weapons in disappointment and relief. Morris wasn't there.
"What the hell is that smell?" O'Shea demanded, looking around the room.
"That's gasoline, Officer Fool." A sneering voice said. Both officers brought their guns back up sharply, aiming at the source of the voice. Anthony Morris smirked down at them through a hole cut in the ceiling.
"Clever bastard," Yokas breathed.
"Ten times more so than any of you."
"You son-of-a-bitch. You killed me partner!" The fury had returned to O'Shea's voice. "I'm comin' for you!"
"I'm so scared."
The taunt was enough to make O'Shea's face go livid. He was back through the door before Yokas could stop him. He was bent on nailing this guy. Halfway up the staircase to the second floor, he heard Yokas scream out his name and he knew in an instant that they were in trouble. Only a handful of seconds later, there was a boom and the whole house shook to its foundation. The stairs beneath him shuddered with the shockwave. He stumbled, bouncing off the wall before tumbling backwards down the stairs. His shoulder hit first and stabs of white heat blossomed from the joint. A cry of pain and surprise ripped from his throat unbidden as he banged his head against the baseboard on the way down. His world was suddenly filled with shock and terror when he realised that something in the house was burning. He could smell the fire and smoke. Then he hit the landing at the bottom of the stairs and everything went black.
"Attention Engine Fifty-Five, attention Engine Fifty-Five. Please respond to 214 Lexington Avenue for a report of an explosion and structure fire. Possible civilians trapped inside. Adam and Boy 55-3 en route. Repeating. Attention EngineFifty-Five, attention Engine Fifty-Five. Please respond to 214 Lexington Avenue for a report of an explosion and structure fire. Possible civilians trapped inside. Adam and Boy 55-3 en route. Time out 1932."
The station came alive instantly. Jimmy already had his heavy trousers pulled on by the time the alarm had ceased its clamouring. Other firefighters were scrambling for their gear and running for the truck.
"Come on, come on, let's move it!"
"EngineFifty-Five responding, 214 Lexington."
One by one, the men piled into the cab. DK was already behind the oversize steering wheel. As soon as all the doors had been pulled shut, he set the large truck into motion. There was never any time to waste when there were people in a burning building.
"Hey, isn't 214 Lex one of the places where them drug-heads hang out?" Someone asked.
Jimmy paled. "No way. It couldn't be a lab that went up."
"You willing to bet on that?"
There were no takers. DK's foot got heavier on the gas pedal. It was suddenly more serious than the initial call had indicated. Drug labs were extremely dangerous places to have, and ten times worse to have them on fire.
"Come on, jackass, get outta the way!" DK cried at the Jeep with out-of-state plates. Jimmy reached over his head and pulled down on the cord of the air horn. The Jeep moved and the Engine roared past him. Each man prayed silently that their worst fears wouldn't come true when they arrived on-scene.
Fire trucks and ambulances filled the street with flashing red and white lights, nearly overshadowing by the glow of orange. Bosco leapt out of the RMP he had parked with a squeal of tires and bounded through the maze of hoses and people to get to the brightly burning house at the centre of everyone's attention. Someone reached out to grab him as he neared the curb and he resisted, his eyes riveted on the blaze.
"Bosco, no! Stay back!"
"My partner's in there!"
"Stay back!" It was Jimmy Doherty who was yelling, his arms wrapped around the struggling officer. "We'll get her out!"
"Faith!" He couldn't see anything moving inside. The windows were billowing thick smoke at an alarming rate. Bosco pushed against Jimmy with all his strength, frantic and determined. He never should have agreed to separate. O'Shea was too reckless.
"Bosco! Get back!"
"Let me go! Faith's in there!"
Jimmy felt himself losing ground against the officer. "DK! Help over here!"
The other firefighter came over at once and the two of them were able to force Bosco back away from the waves of heat and smoke. Officers appeared to take over for the firefighters, and Bosco was well-restrained. He felt shattered. There was no way anybody could survive long in that inferno, even with the right equipment. It wasn't possible. What was he going to tell Fred? How could he tell Fred? It was his fault that Faith was in there. He hadn't been around to watch her back. O'Shea was supposed to, and clearly he'd failed. Silent tears smeared the grime that had settled onto Bosco's cheeks. That stupid bastard had been bound to get someone hurt and now it had happened. Why hadn't he been taken off the street before now, before another officer suffered because of his relentless hunt for revenge?
The loud crackling and snapping of beams caused the shouted chatter to pause for a moment. It was hopeless now and everyone on the street knew it. Whoever was inside would be long dead by now. Nobody could live through an entire floor collapsing on top of them. The only thing left was to put out the flames and search for bodies.
Bosco threw off the hands that held him back and sank down against the tire of the nearest vehicle. He felt sick to his stomach. What was he supposed to do now, without his partner there to help him through each shift? She was the reason he stayed a cop, and she was gone, lost in that raging fire. Damn that idiot O'Shea! Bosco should have known that the older cop would finally drag someone else down with him.
What was the point of all this? Another two officers killed in the line of duty, and for what? Some Ecstasy dealer who wasn't worth the cost in lives that were being lost? No. It wasn't right. They shouldn't even be bothering anymore. Officers were getting hurt and killed and it had to stop. But why did it have to be Faith?
"Medic!"
A rush of activity erupted nearby. Bosco looked up toward the house, shocked that he recognised that voice. It was O'Shea, that careless ass. The older officer appeared in the front entryway, staggering out of the smoke. What the hell? Was it possible? Bosco shot to his feet. O'Shea was carrying someone in his arms. Who was it? He prayed fervently that it was his partner, that she was still alive. Jimmy Doherty and another firefighter hurried to O'Shea, helping him down the front steps. The officer was covered from head to toe in ash and dirt, and his uniform had clearly been on fire. Patches of the fabric had been burnt away. His face was nearly as black as the rubber jackets the firefighters were wearing.
"Faith!"
Doc rushed to take the unconscious officer from O'Shea, allowing him to collapse against Jimmy.
"What happened?"
O'Shea trembled, his eyes slightly unfocussed. "I don't know. There was a boom, I fell down the stairs and hit me head. She might've been knocked out. I don't know, I don't know."
"Malone, get over here with that bag!"
The paramedic carefully laid Faith down and went to work right away. Bosco knew the situation was dire, the pair were moving with such precise urgency. O'Shea was led over to the closest bus and Carlos slid an oxygen mask over the officer's face. The Irishman was too concerned about what was happening on the ground nearby to bother resisting.
"What should I do?" The fourth paramedic asked. Malone spared half a second to glare up at her young partner.
"Get over to the bus and help out the other officer. There's nothing you can do here right now." She snapped, and the kid obeyed with an embarrassed expression on his face. Bosco registered this only peripherally. He didn't care much at all how O'Shea was doing. The only one he cared about was the one at the centre of the three paramedics' efforts and attention.
"Come on, Faith. Breathe. Come on." Doc urged, carefully sliding the C-collar around her neck.
"No pulse. Where are the paddles?" The paramedic named Malone tore open Faith's shirt, not caring that the buttons ripped free and flew everywhere. "Dammit! I forgot about the vest!"
"Get it off now!"
"Carlos!"
Bosco watched, utterly numb. This wasn't happening. Please, let her be okay. Let her pull through this. Carlos yanked the Velcro straps apart and pulled the chest portion of the vest away. The instant the protective Kevlar was out of the way, Malone cut away the front of the tank top that Faith always wore under her vest. Bosco wanted to protest the disregard for her privacy, but held his silence. They were only doing it to save her. Doc and Malone put the sensor pads in place while Carlos switched on the defibrillator. Everything else going on around them was forgotten. The only thought on the paramedics' minds was the unconscious officer lying between them.
"Stand clear!"
Everyone standing around tensed as the shock was delivered. Malone immediately checked for a pulse.
"Dial it up."
"Stand clear!"
The second, stronger shock made Bosco wince in sympathy. Malone checked again and she grinned for a split second.
"We got a pulse back."
"She's still not breathing."
The barely-controlled panic in Carlos' voice sent shivers through Bosco. She couldn't die on him. She was too strong. He'd known her too long to lose faith in her now. She had to pull through, and she would.
"Get me the tube. We gotta get her intubated." Malone snapped at Carlos, who immediately dug out the desired equipment. Sticking her penlight between her teeth, Malone prepped the tube for insertion. "Tip her head back a little. I need to see where the airway is."
"Carefully, Carlos!"
Malone shined the flashlight beam into the back of Faith's open mouth. "I see it, gimme a sec." She slid the narrow tube into place. "Got it!"
Doc fastened the bag onto the end of the tube. "It's all yours."
"Is she gonna be okay?" The fourth paramedic was looking on from the other bus, doing his best to learn by observing.
"Only if she works with us," Malone replied tersely. Bosco watched with a dark cloud of worry clouding his face.
"Come on, Faith, breathe for me. You can do it." Doc urged, checking for any sign that Faith was breathing on her own, despite the regular squeezes on the bag that Malone was giving. He glanced up at her and the pair shared a moment of silent communication. Doc shook his head. "We gotta take her."
"Get the backboard over here now!" Malone barked.
"Adam 55-3 to Central, 10-82 with one, transporting urgent to Angel of Mercy."
"Ten-four, Adam 55-3. Specify urgent, please."
"Unconscious female, approximately thirty-five years of age, not breathing, severe smoke inhalation, no visible burns or other superficial injuries. Possible back and neck injury. Please notify emergency room to prep for our arrival. Any questions or restrictions?"
A tense silence fell as Carlos returned with the backboard. He helped Malone and Doc roll Faith onto her side so the fourth paramedic – a young man Bosco didn't recognise – could slide the backboard underneath the officer.
"Adam 55-3, Angel of Mercy notified of urgent transport, no questions or restrictions at this time. 1754."
"Ten-four, Central." Doc said. "Come on, let's go!"
"On three. One, two, three!" Malone cried. The four medics lifted the backboard and carried it quickly over to the stretcher that was waiting near Doc and Carlos' bus.
"Get her strapped in and let's roll."
Carlos sprinted around to the driver's side and jumped into the seat. Doc and Malone were already in the back, setting up for an IV drip.
"What do I do?"
"Follow in the other bus." Malone answered without looking up. "Let's go, Carlos!"
"Wait, I'm coming!" O'Shea pulled himself into the back as Sully was slamming the doors shut. The other veteran pounded three times on the now-closed door and Carlos took off at once.
Rooted to the spot with disbelief at the whirlwind of activity that had unfolded before him, Bosco stared after the bus for several long moments before shaking himself into motion. His partner's vest and duty belt were lying, discarded, on the sidewalk and he retrieved them. He had to get to the hospital and make sure that nothing more happened to his partner.
"You!"
Andy O'Shea looked over from where he was sitting on the hospital bed, doing his best to tape up a deep cut on his forehead. His burnt uniform was draped over a chair nearby, keeping company with his duty belt and smoke-grimed hat. There were still smears of dirt on his tired face.
"You son-of-a-bitch." Bosco half-walked, half-ran past the officers standing near the door of the room and crossed the floor to the bed in a mere two strides. "This is all your fault!"
The officers in the hallway rushed into the room in the seconds following Bosco's first swing but weren't in time to stop the second. O'Shea took both blows without reaction, his hands planted firmly in his lap. There was no desire to fight back in his eyes, and his expression was distinctly sad. Bosco took in none of this. His face was a shiny shade of red as he fought against the men trying to pull him bodily from the room.
"You had to be the hero! Look what you've done, dammit!"
"Bosco, knock it off! Enough!"
"When's it gonna be enough, O'Shea? Huh? When you get somebody killed? Will you be happy then?"
"Boscorelli, that's enough!"
The wildly fighting officer dragged the pile of bodies forward several steps, seeking to land just one more punch. "You stay away from my partner. Got that? Stay away from my partner!"
Lieutenant Swersky grabbed Bosco's shoulders and helped drag him back into the hallway. "I said that's enough, Boscorelli!"
"Gerroffame!" Bosco tore away from the restraining hands. "I'm fine now." He looked in at the unfazed Irishman still sitting on the hospital bed. The bandage he had managed to apply to his forehead had fallen off, leaving a smear of blood down to his eyebrow. O'Shea didn't seem to notice the warm sensation trickling down his face.
"Hey hey hey!" The crowd lunged at once after Bosco as he started to charge back into the room for another shot at O'Shea.
"Get him out of here now!" Swersky ordered and Bosco was hauled away to the waiting room, kicking, fighting, and shouting the whole way. With a great deal of effort, the officers succeeded in forcing their comrade into a chair. Several tense minutes passed before Bosco finally gave up his struggle. He sat in furious silence, slumped forward with his elbows on his knees.
"What did you do this time?"
Bosco got half-way to his feet, in time for Fred to grab him by the shirt collar and drag him fully upright. Right away, the same crowd of officers surged forward to break up the altercation before it escalated. "It wasn't me, Fred, I swear!"
"That'd be a first!"
"Knock it off, I wasn't even there!"
Fred stood back and glared daggers at Bosco. "Then who was?"
"He was." Bosco pointed down the hall. Everyone turned to look at O'Shea, who was just emerging from the room where he'd been treating himself. Fred's face took on a dark shade of red.
"Are you the one responsible for this?"
O'Shea blinked slowly and nodded. "Aye. It's all me fault."
"This is for you, then."
"Fred!" This time was Bosco who leapt forward to intervene. O'Shea wavered on his feet for a moment after the well-aimed blow, then his knees buckled and he went down without a sound. Sully was able to catch the other veteran before he could hit the floor.
"I've had it!" Swersky gave Fred a hearty shove back. "First you go after Boscorelli, then you take a swing at O'Shea. That's two counts of assault on an officer right there, pal. Back off or I arrest you right now." The lieutenant looked over his shoulder at Sully. "Get O'Shea back to wherever he came from and wait for him to come around. We'll need to get a statement from him later."
"Yes sir," Sully said, casting a disgusted glance at Fred as he and Davis hefted the unconscious officer between them and carried him away.
"Not so fast, Boscorelli. You need to hang around until we find out whether O'Shea wants to prefer charges or not."
"For a little bruise on his eye?"
Swersky's glare could have melted steel. "For breaking his nose and worsening his concussion. Congratulations, Boscorelli. You just guaranteed O'Shea a pass from the beat. I bet he'll be real pleased with you when he finds out."
"No more than he deserves," Bosco muttered.
The world was a sea of blackness and sound. Voices and some kind of mechanical beeping swam around her senses like a vapour, tickling and teasing her groggy mind with the promise of something hopeful. That she could hear again was a blessing. The explosion had all but deafened her, leaving only the high-pitched ringing of what must have been a dozen bells in her ears that drowned out every other sound. Then the darkness had come, drawing her blissfully away from the scene from hell she had found herself in. She remembered staring up at Morris through the hole in the ceiling, and watching him strike the match. The match that he let fall from his fingers. The match that tumbled lazily down to land in the middle of the room and ignite the hardwood floor instantly. It happened almost too fast for her to even comprehend. She yelled for O'Shea as she dove for the cover of the hallway, just in time.
Boom.
She twitched involuntarily, remembering the whole house shaking around her as she lay there on the floor, arms over her head. The blast tore apart the wall and showered everything with chunks of plaster and wood. Smoke. There had been so much smoke. It choked her, filling her nose, throat, and lungs and making it nearly impossible to breathe at all. Red-hot embers sprinkled over her as something nearby collapsed, melting small holes in her jacket and singing her exposed skin. She remembered slapping at the burning flakes as they fell, trying to crawl frantically down the hallway. Staying low was the only thing she remembered from the training the fire department had offered. There was so much smoke. She couldn't see more than a handful of inches in front of her. For all she knew, she was going the wrong way, but at least she was going somewhere. Her throat was raw from screaming for help, shouting for Andy O'Shea, and praying that somebody, anybody, could hear her. Nobody came. Then there was a horrid crackling from the ceiling over her and she curled into a tight ball, coughing heavily and fighting for every breath. At last, the blessed curtain of darkness and silence fell around her and she was no longer in the house, but somewhere far more calm and peaceful.
Her next memory… what was it? Something or someone lifting her up, bearing her away from the flames. The heat of the approaching blaze had been nearly overwhelming, but someone had carried her to safety. But who? Shouting voices, sirens, hands pulling apart her shirt and vest. The surreal sense of watching people work to keep her alive from somewhere else, even though she was far from dead. Flashes of faces, snatches of voices, motion, always motion. Starts and stops that had to be an ambulance racing from one red light to another, impatient to reach its destination. A reassuring hand wrapped tightly around hers, squeezing with strength that anchored her drifting mind to the present, where it belonged. Was it Fred? Maybe Bosco. Doc, perhaps. His was one of the many voices echoing above. What was happening, anyway?
O'Shea. Where was he? She couldn't hear him anywhere. Had he made it out of the house alive? He'd been upstairs when the gas can blew up. What were the odds of anyone surviving a fall from the second floor? One hundred to one? One thousand? Too long to measure? It didn't matter. He couldn't have made it out. No one was that lucky. Not even the Irish.
Someone was there beside her now, squeezing her hand. It was Fred. He was talking. About what she had no idea, but the sound of his voice was a tonic. The lingering fear of never breathing freely again dissipated like early morning mist.
"You came." Her voice sounded like a dry croak and her eyes had trouble focussing right away when she forced them to open.
"Of course I did."
"What happened?"
"You were in a fire."
"No. After that. After they got me out."
Fred patted her hand. "They brought you here."
"Okay." It wasn't the answer she'd wanted to hear, but she was too tired to care. "How're the kids?"
"They're all right. Waiting at home."
The room started to spiral and she closed her eyes again. "Good."
"Excuse me, sir, but it's time to let her rest," a nurse said from the doorway.
"I'll be back later, okay?"
Faith smiled a little. "Okay." She heard him rise from the chair and cross the floor to the door. He was there for her, just like always. Her mind began to feel heavy with fatigue. Sleep would be a boon.
"Hey."
"Who's there?"
"It's me."
Bosco. She willed her eyes open. "Didn't think you'd be here."
He looked hurt. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"You took off, remember?"
"I take it back."
She'd already forgiven him, but hearing him recant was enough of a rarity that she nodded. "I do too." Her throat felt dry and coarse as she swallowed before asking the question that was weighing heavily on her. "What happened, after the explosion? I don't remember."
"They were able to get you out before the house caved in."
"I know, Fred told me that part. Somebody carried me out. I remember it, vaguely. Somebody came back to get me out but I don't know who it was."
Bosco hesitated a long moment. "It was O'Shea."
Pure relief showered through her like the incoming tide. "So he did make it through the blast."
"Yeah."
There was something flickering across her partner's face that set off an alarm bell in her head. "Wait. I know that look. What happened after?"
"We had some words."
"And?"
"He's in another room down the hall. Sully's in with him, waiting for him to come around."
Faith sat up as far as she could in the bed. "What? Bosco, what'd you do?"
"It wasn't me. I didn't knock him out, anyway. I just got the first two swings in before Fred took his turn."
"Fred knocked him out?"
Bosco nodded. "Yeah."
"I don't believe this. What's the matter with you guys?"
"It's his fault this all happened, Faith. If he'd been more conscious of others, we wouldn't even be here."
"And that's a reason to hit him?"
"Good enough for me."
"Bosco! That's not right."
"What he did wasn't right either." Bosco said stubbornly.
"That still doesn't excuse what you did."
"Look, Yokas. He won't be a problem anymore. I think he's gotten the message this time."
Faith gave up. It wasn't worth the effort, and she doubted she had the energy to make the effort anyway. "How bad was he hurt?"
"Cut on his head, a concussion, a broken nose courtesy of me, and another black eye, courtesy of Fred."
"I'm not hearing this."
"I don't get it. Why are you so determined to take his side? He's the reason you're here with the oxygen tanks goin'. Don't tell me you're gonna stick with this temporary partner thing."
"Why shouldn't I? What happened was an accident, Bosco. It's nobody's fault."
"An accident? Yokas, that house you were in, it blew up. The bucketboys are already calling it arson. Where in that do you get that it's an accident?"
"Mistakes were made," Faith said slowly. "Andy made some, I made some. We own up to them and move on. There's more at stake here than who's right about what, Bos. You can accept that, or you can't."
Her partner's face might have been carved from solid rock. "So that's the line in the sand, then?"
"Yeah, it is."
"Fine." Bosco got up from the chair. "I would've been there in an instant, Yokas."
"And what's stopping you now?"
"You."
It was all the answer he seemed willing or able to give. Without another word, he turned away and left the room. Faith closed her eyes again, wishing there was a way to fathom the reasons for her partner's infuriatingly stubborn behaviour. Warm darkness overtook her before long and the soothing curtain of slumber fell, bearing her away to a land of happier thoughts and dreams.
"You gonna be all right by yourself?"
Andy O'Shea looked back at Sullivan through his one good eye, an ice pack in his left hand. "Aye. I'll be fine."
"You can crash on the couch over at my place if you want."
"I'm fine." O'Shea repeated.
"Okay. Just offerin'. See you later, then?"
"Aye."
Sullivan watched the other veteran climb carefully up the steps then turned away. The apartment building door eclipsed the view from the outside as O'Shea shut it behind him. He was just fine without everyone worrying. The one thing he never liked from strangers and people he barely knew. They had no idea that he really was fine, that he was just a little sore. That was all. Nothing serious or lasting was wrong with him.
"That you, Jason?"
"No."
Jamie appeared from the kitchen with a jumbo-size soda bottle in his hand. "Oh. It's you."
"Good to see you too." O'Shea said, limping down the hall to his bedroom. "Where're the girls?"
"They went to Nana's for the night. She came by earlier to get 'em."
"Who else is here?"
"Just TJ. Jason's supposed to be coming back with pizza right about now."
Good. They were feeding themselves. O'Shea looked at the ice pack in his hand. It was thawing out fast. He tossed it onto the pile of clothes overflowing from the hamper, then eased off his jacket and draped it over the battered chair in the corner. Lieutenant Swersky had taken care of his gun belt and burnt uniform for him. A replacement uniform would be sent to the apartment for him, even though he wouldn't need one until Malloy's funeral. His blood still burned as Swersky's words echoed in his ears. "You're off the street until you're medically cleared, O'Shea. Catch up on some rest and play with your kids. You need the time off, anyway. You're a mess." The lieutenant was right, but admitting it was like trying to swallow nails. He hadn't been taken off the beat for medical reasons in fifteen years. It rankled to be considered too injured to work.
"Anythin' good on TV?"
"I dunno. We're playing Playstation."
Better than what they could be doing. O'Shea opened the refrigerator, knowing there was nothing in it. Just a half-empty carton of orange juice that was probably spoiled. The last of the milk had been used for the girls' cereal that morning. He sighed. If only Jamie knew enough to go grocery shopping when he was home by himself.
"Hey Mr O'Shea."
"Good to see you, Jason."
The teen pushed the door shut with his foot, deftly balancing two pizza boxes and a bag of chips. "What happened to you?"
O'Shea reached up to gingerly touch his blacked eye. "Rough day."
"They happen. Hope you feel better, sir." Jason ambled to the living with the food, leaving O'Shea alone in the kitchen. His stomach grumbled at the aroma of the fresh pizza, and he remembered that he hadn't eaten since that morning. He went to his room and slipped his jacket back on. There was precious little to eat in the apartment, so he might as well go out somewhere.
"I'm goin' out to Haggerty's."
"See you." Jamie called from the living room.
"Everyone's out by midnight."
"Okay."
"No girls."
"Okay."
O'Shea shook his head as he picked up his keys from the counter. There was hardly any reason to tell the boy. He knew the rules well enough. If he wanted to hang out with girls, he was more than capable of going to a friend's house for that. The Irishman made his way slowly down the stairs, wondering if going out for a drink was really what he should be doing. Maybe he should just grab a sandwich from the nearest deli and go visit Yokas in the hospital. Maybe he should go see how Tara Malloy was holding up. There were a whole lot of maybes but nothing definite.
He started his truck and listened to the old engine hack and cough itself to life. At least it was running again. Maybe he would just go to Haggerty's for a drink. It was the only place he'd go for Guinness, anyway. Or he'd do what he knew he shouldn't do and go see how Yokas was doing. Boscorelli's warning flitted across his memory like an unwanted housefly. "Stay away from my partner." He knew that he shouldn't cross the younger man, but he couldn't summon the strength to turn the truck around. It was too important that he make sure she was all right. It was his fault this had happened, anyway.
Most of the officers that had gathered in the waiting room earlier were now gone. Only a couple standing guard near Yokas' door were left, and O'Shea saw two detectives sitting near the bed inside. Getting her statement. Wonderful.
"Can I help you, sir?" One of the officers asked.
"Andy O'Shea. Detectives done yet?" He held up his shield.
"Not yet. You can't go in until they are."
O'Shea tucked the silver shield into his pocket again. "Sure. Just wanted to see how Yokas was doin'. Just tell her I was here. Thanks for your help, lad."
"Certainly, sir." The young kid said. As O'Shea walked away, the other guard nudged his companion.
"Don't you know who that is?"
"No."
"That's Andrew O'Shea. One of the Five-Five's legends still on the beat. What he asks for, he gets, Walker. Remember that."
Morales, the doctor who'd prescribed the Vicaden for him, saw him walking toward the exit. "Hey, Officer. How're your ribs?"
"Bit better."
"Dear God. What happened to your face?"
"Fell down some stairs during a fire. Got punched a coupla times. Nothin' bad."
She peered closely at his poorly-taped nose. "Not bad? Who taped your nose?"
"I did. It's just broken."
"Come over here for a minute."
O'Shea shook his head. "I'm fine, ma'am. Ain't nothin' this old boy can't get through."
The doctor was already pulling out bandages and tape. "The nose won't heal completely if it's not taped right."
"It's already crooked from bein' broke a few times before." O'Shea protested.
"Shut up and let me tape that nose," Morales ordered, and he relented. With a sharp, swift tug, she removed the tape he'd put on his nose earlier, eliciting a startled curse from the cop. "For such a tough guy, you're awful sensitive to pain."
"You don't gotta be so rough 'bout it!"
"Oh grow up." The doctor muttered. "There, that's a lot better. Probably won't straighten out the cartilage any, but it won't be any more crooked." She noticed the sloppy bandage above his eye as she started to turn away. "What is that?"
O'Shea's fingers traced the outline of the gauze pad he'd painstakingly taped to his forehead. "That? A bandage, ma'am."
"Not much of one. If you're going to treat yourself, at least use a mirror."
"I'll remember that," Andy rolled his eyes. "You really ain't gotta do this."
"Somebody's gotta teach you how to properly cover your wounds. This slap-on-a-bandage-and-go stuff doesn't cut it." Morales stepped back. "That's better. I can't do anything for your eye. Just ice it. Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off. And no more fighting. There are enough bruises on your face to last a month."
"Thanks, Doc."
"I'm sure I'll be seeing you in here again sometime soon, so until then, Officer."
O'Shea scratched his ear as he watched her disappear down the hall. What made people care so much about what happened to him? He was just an officer, a beat cop. As far down in the departmental social hierarchy as was possible. Why did people care? He certainly didn't owe society anything. He had handled his most recent debt by carrying Yokas out of that house. They were even now. She'd saved his life, and he'd saved hers. End of story. He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. Guinness sounded really good. Haggerty's was open until after midnight. More than enough time to put down a round or two.
"Officer O'Shea."
He looked back over his shoulder to see the young cop who'd been standing guard outside Yokas' room. "Whatcha want, lad?"
"Officer Yokas will see you now." The kid blushed at the way his statement sounded. "I mean, she's not with the detectives anymore, and I – "
"I get it. Thanks." O'Shea offered a smile for the kid's sake. "Back to your post, lad. Won't do to be caught slacking off."
"No sir!"
The older man followed the rookie back down the hallway to Yokas' room, where the other guard touched the brim of his hat in a salute at O'Shea's approach. He smiled at the gesture as he stepped through the open door.
"Yokas?"
She rolled her head toward the door and opened her eyes. "You look like hell."
He managed a short chuckle, moving to the chair near the bed. "Been better. How're you?"
"It's getting easier to breathe."
"That's good."
Yokas looked at her hands. "I'm sorry about Bosco and Fred. They lost their tempers. They're blaming you for what happened."
"I don't mind. I understand how they feel. Hell, I blame me for what happened." O'Shea fingered his broken nose. "Bein' on the street too long makes you think you can do anythin' and get away with it. You forget there's consequences for bein' rash."
"It's not your fault, O'Shea."
"I rushed in without waiting for ESU and I went charging after Morris without making sure it was safe. I might as well take the blame for it all."
"Bagging Morris won't bring Malloy back."
"But it'll make me feel a whole helluva lot better." O'Shea said. "And it'll be a real good note to retire on, too."
"You're going to retire?"
He thought about his next words for a long moment. "Aye. I hardly ever see me kids. They're at school when I'm working, and they go wherever their brother goes afterwards. When they get up in the morning, it's lucky if I'm there. When they come home from school, it's lucky if I'm there." He smiled sadly. "Most of the time, I only get to see them when they're in a school play or are just getting ready for bed. I don't usually take days off. Can't afford to. Can't afford a regular babysitter, either. Jamie watches the girls all the time when their nana ain't able to. He don't like it, but he does it."
"And you want to be there for them more?"
"Aye. I ain't got much left and those three mean the world. Wouldn't be so bad if their mother was still alive, but she ain't."
Yokas looked him in the eye. "You've been thinking about this a lot?"
"More than I used to." He admitted. "What's the point in keepin' the shield when I've long outlived me usefulness to the force?"
"Andy, you haven't – "
O'Shea shook his head, interrupting her. "I've got me twenty-five years in. Pension oughta be decent enough to live on until I get another job. Something more flexible."
"You talked to Lieu about this yet?"
"Haven't seen him since this afternoon. I'll get the paperwork from him whenever I go back to work."
Her eyes went wide. "They put you on medical leave?"
"Aye. Bit much, I think. Coupla bruises and scratches never stopped me before."
"But what about your concussion? They said you fell pretty hard down those stairs."
O'Shea shrugged. "Just a bump on the head. It's a mild concussion anyway. I'll live. I just gotta be woken up every fifteen minutes or so."
"I'm surprised that Lieu let you go off by yourself. I'd have thought he would detail a guy to make things are okay."
"It was his call."
Silence fell as the two officers entertained their own thoughts. Yokas broke the quiet first. "Morales says I can go home tomorrow afternoon."
"That's good. Maybe we'll see you on the beat then."
"Not until Monday. I took a sick day."
"Hope it helps."
"Me too."
O'Shea got up. "See you Monday, then."
"You gonna be okay?"
"Yeah."
"Andy."
He forced a half-smile that belied how empty he felt inside. "I'm an old tough Irishman. Ain't nothin' gets me down. I'll be okay." It had been years since he'd talked so openly with anyone. He trusted Yokas enough now to take that risk. It was as far as he trusted anyone these days. "Don't worry about this old lad. You just concentrate on gettin' back on your feet."
The older cop walked out without saying anything more, nodding at the pair flanking the doorway. He really wanted a drink now.